Great Crossing

By Judalon de Bornay

                 

1807: With the country spiraling out of control and heading toward another war with England, a slave woman and a man destined to become an American vice president find themselves on a different kind of collision course. Although they lead very separate lives, one hand rules them both: Jemima Johnson, matriarch of the first western political dynasty and stern mistress over Great Crossing.

Richard's world revolves around fulfilling his mother's plans for a brilliant political future. Julia's every move depends on his mother's whims, as her pet slave. Julia watches helplessly as Richard pursues independent and worldly-wise Suzanne, the woman who has the mettle to help him become president. But, when his mother destroys those plans, Julia's relief knows no bounds, for she clings to the one freedom even a slave can claim: to dream, and she dreams of loving Richard.

After a revelatory trip to New Orleans, Richard changes his entire life course with one decision. He sets out to defy his family and American society as well, with his choice of bride. But, can Julia's dream of being with the man she loves survive threats, ridicule and isolation? Can Richard stand up to the greatest men of their time and defend his shocking choice?

Great Crossing, A Forgotten Love Story, reimagines the relationship between Julia Chinn and Vice President Richard Mentor Johnson, a love that dared to cross barriers and confront relentless obstacles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Judalon de Bornay
• Release date: May 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201821166

Judalon de Bornay

Judalon de Bornay is an educator and writer who lives in the Coachella Valley with her husband. 

Book preview

The Johnson Family of Great Crossing, Kentucky

Robert Robin Johnson, born 1745,

married Jemima Suggett, born 1753.

Their children were:

Betsey: born 1772, married John Payne

James: born 1774, married Nancy Payne

William H.: born 1775, married Betsy Payne

Sallie: born 1778, married William Ward

Richard Mentor: born 1780, married Julia Chinn

Benjamin: born 1784, married Matilda Williams

Robert: born 1786, died War of 1812

John Telemachus: born 1788, married Sophia Lewis

Joel: born 1790, married Verlinda Offutt

George W., born 1792, died 1810

Henry: born 1794, married Elizabeth Flournoy

Chapter 1

Inauguration

March 4, 1837. Washington, DC

Apity the sun chose today to shine for the first time in months. A shame he couldn’t use the freezing rain as an excuse to cut short his time in the Senate. He did not want to leave the warmth of his bed for an upstart ray of sunlight. He needed the stillness of his grief more than the trouble of his inauguration. Let a man bereaved of wife and daughter remain in the shadows where all good vice-presidents belong.

Thirty years ago, he thought he was everything, and Washington behaved as hopelessly naïve, as maddening in its optimism as he had. And by 1814 that second war with the King had left his body and this town in ruins. In the quarter century since the war, he’d used his battle scars to good effect. But the town had taken a turn toward faithless ignorance and aimed its terrifying, deliberate cruelty towards too many, including himself. It happened without anyone in particular getting the blame, and it happened in that slippery, small-town fashion: a look cast with the lighting of a cigar, a word murmured after a sip of floral tea.

At night, unable to sleep, he fancied the wind full of the cries of good boys like he’d once been, as they threw over their good intentions in order to survive just one more election. And when he walked each morning to the Senate and turned his head toward the sky, he could almost see the impossible promises and muttered threats lift into the air to join the mists rising off the Potomac.

In a few hours, he would swear an oath of office. And what would that be? To uphold the past two terms of promises and threats from his old friend Jackson. Marty got picked for the top instead of him, and it was a sore that would never heal, but they both accepted the fact that their mentor’s hands would still hold the reins.

He thought of the wreckage left in Jackson’s wake and his stomach clenched with the sure knowledge every whipping boy learns the hard way: he would pay the price, not Marty. The new president had little in common with the old. Marty played the indoor games, while he and Jackson earned fame the hard way as Indian killers. The president’s expulsion of the Civilized Tribes stank of cruelty, and Marty planned on finishing the order. But who would get the blame? He would, because he’d killed too many Indians twenty and some odd years ago while Marty’d stayed indoors. Because of that damned reputation, his penance—the Indian Academy back home—might very well be put to the torch.

He and Jackson shared another fame that he thought had made the president more his brother than Marty’s. They had shared the exquisite torment of ridicule from the press and the public because of their wives. And his ambition for the White House–knowing Julia and their daughters would never be allowed to cross its threshold–made him pander to such childish policies as letting Peg O’Neale tear up Jackson’s Cabinet.

A sudden screech of wind through the chimney agreed with his thoughts. Bitter cold, despite the sun, would punish old Jackson and Marty both, as they made their victory ride down Pennsylvania Avenue. It would punish him as well, making his battle scars constrict and his hands rigid as old leather. At least his swearing-in would be in the Senate chamber by a nicely stoked fire. That would serve as a bit of consolation for playing second fiddle.

The thought encouraged him enough to throw off the covers, careful not to ruffle Lydia in her sleep. He sat on the edge of the mattress for a minute, waiting for some sign of feeling in his toes and stared at the painting over the fireplace mantel. It depicted an old castle fortress, clinging to a sea cliff. How Julia had feared it, as if one day she’d pass by and find the castle fallen into the waves below. Her superstitious notion that it portrayed their lives had led him to give way to his own superstition after her death. Each morning he stared at it reverently and prayed the briefest moment.

Don’t be too disappointed. I almost made it.

You would have made it had you left my girl where she belonged.

Not Julia’s sweet consolation; not Adi’s teasing assurance. He heard his mother. With a sigh, he crawled back under the covers, but closing his eyes did not close off the memories or the regrets.

It was no use; he sat upright again and stared once more at the painting. As he watched, the sunbeam that had roused him expanded and lapped gently at the castle ruins. Suddenly, millions of dust bits entrapped within the beam turned brilliant, taking on a life of their own. He felt a familiar warmth embrace him, a pressure on the bed by his thigh.

It’s our first morning, isn’t it? He asked. The pressure moved up his scarred arm.

They had shared breakfast for the first time as man and wife in a humble widow’s kitchen where the sun lit up Julia’s face and made her sparkle like a jewel.

Richard stared in wonder at the shimmering air until his chin trembled and he could bear the memories no longer. Then he put his head in his hands and wept.

Chapter 2

First Run

October 10, 1794. Johnson Farm at the Great Crossing, Kentucky

Richard wondered if the war with Spain had already started. The jostle and clatter beneath his window sounded like some kind of battle. He shook his head clear of sleep and found himself alone, without any little brothers clinging to him. A norther’ must have blown in because the air in his room pinched the skin on the back of his hands and wouldn’t let up. He kicked his legs free of blankets, walked over to the window and cracked it open just a sliver as he took quick aim at the chamber pot.

Their overseer stood next to his father and nodded. A jumble of talk from his big brothers and sister grew louder: James cursed Spain and the blockade and Will cursed President Washington, getting a sharp rebuke from Ma for his trouble. Above them all was Sallie’s laughter.

Why hadn’t Pa gotten him up an hour ago? Richard panicked as he pulled on his clothes. Ma must’ve won out at the last minute. He’d overheard his parents arguing the day before. Even though it felt shamefully good to be the sole object of their fury toward each other, his rising anger against his mother unsettled him. The moment he stepped into the upstairs landing, he sighed with relief to see his travel pack gone.

He peeked into the next room and found where Benj and Joel had migrated. All five of his little brothers lay curled against each other for warmth, their quilts a heap on the floor. God bless Robert, John T, Benj, Joel and George, he whispered. Ma always said you had to say every single name in a God Bless prayer, otherwise it didn’t count.

Richard’s thick wool socks made him slip on the oak floors and he tensed every muscle in his body to keep from falling. By the time he made it downstairs, he felt like he’d already traveled a mile over solid ice. The stable boy, Jacob, had left Richard’s boots propped against the entry hall bench and they shined with a fresh layer of grease—bear, from the smell of it. Such a thick coating meant Pa expected a downpour.

A cold current trickled toward him from the back door and he heard the Singin’ Sisters humming as they got breakfast plated up. It smelled. Since their cook died having a baby, they’d been stuck with the old twin servants and their cooking testified to why they’d been replaced. Ma needed to do something soon. They’d need a first-rate cook for Sallie’s wedding. She couldn’t marry the high and mighty William Ward with a shabby table. Even he knew that.

Richard heard their laundry girl, Lucy, giggling somewhere down the hall. Sure enough, Jacob came grinning from the pantry, loaded down with two big lunch baskets. He started to tease them but stopped when he heard his mother’s voice coming from the end of the porch.

I want Richard here with me, Robin Johnson! Richard knew Pa was in for it. When his parents got in the thick of things, calling each other Robin Johnson and Jemima Suggett gave everybody a clear sign to stay away.

A boy should be with his mother on his birthday! She changed to a whisper so the servants wouldn’t hear, but he could feel his mother’s anger with every raspy syllable all the same. Sometimes he wished she’d just yell. What difference did it make being an example of Christian virtue when everybody didn’t hear as much as feel his mother’s wrath? It came off her like heat from the frying pan.

His father made the mistake of chuckling. Richard couldn’t see his mother’s face, but he knew it had changed color.

"His birthday? You’ve got five little boys to treat like babies. Age of fourteen’s about time to let this one grow up."

Thanks, Pa. About time, alright.

His mother said nothing, a bad sign.

I don’t understand you, Jem. You never had a problem with James or Will making a Louisville run, and they were a lot younger when they went along. Even with all this talk of war, it was more dangerous back then.

They were different. They had to grow up fighting for their lives. Richard’s got no memory of the fort or the fires or nearly dying of starvation. He’s the first to grow up during our easy times.

On the other end of the porch, Richard heard Sallie, Will and James laughing. They didn’t seem much like survivors of anything special, except Ma’s strap, maybe. He strained to hear his parents and held his breath.

Call it motherly intuition or a warning from God. Something. She spoke softly now, no longer in that annoying whisper-hiss, and he heard her clearly. I have a feeling something terrible is about to happen. He’s so different from the other children, Robin. He looks at everything so strange, and I blame you. Stuffin’ his head full of Merlin. Percival. Quixote. She’d gone back to hissing.

Richard’s chest tightened with that new feeling of irritation at his mother. He loved those stories the way none of his brothers ever did. They filled the hours when he followed Pa around the Crossing. Just yesterday Pa used Don Quixote to explain how somebody as low-down as Aldonza could be the lady Dulcinea. But with every argument he overheard between his parents, he couldn’t help thinking that even treating a lady like a lady must be near impossible. Ma was a fine Baptist woman, but she could try the patience of a saint, and Pa was no saint.

"If this were just another business trip, I might bend a little. But this is politics. He is different, Jem, and I’ve got just as strong a feeling as you have that it’ll change his life. He’s the one who’s got the chance." His father’s voice sounded urgent, hopeful. Chance for what, Richard wanted to ask out loud.

You really think they will see it in him?

See what, Richard wanted to scream, now. The strange and secret understanding between his parents let them leave out too many words.

His mother sighed. Alright then. Watch out for him. He is in danger, and I don’t know if it’s from the riffraff on the barges, or something when you get to Louisville. But don’t let him out of your sight. Promise me.

Richard heard them kiss. Scrapping one minute, kissing the next. He would never understand them. He backed away from the door and stepped into the dining room just as they walked in.

Eat up, boy, his mother ordered, giving him an annoying pat on the back. He ate as much as he could stand, which wasn’t much.

When he rose from the table, she came and stood next to him, his four extra inches forcing her to look up at his face. It made him uneasy to think they had drifted apart over the past few months. In his eagerness to be on his own, he hadn’t stayed close enough to her to notice this change in his size. He’d spent years measuring himself next to her—first her knee, then her waist, then her shoulder. Now it seemed she’d always been small, almost insignificant.

Stay close to your father and mind your manners at the conference. They’re important men, and powerful. They may remember you in future. She spoke in soft staccatos, a blend of old Virginia genteel and Kentucky hard-boiled. She offered her cheek, and he obliged with a light kiss and a respectful hug, which her bulging stomach made difficult.

Take good care of my little brother, Ma. He stepped away from her.

Which one? she asked with a laugh.

He gave her a sober smile. The one that’s coming, of course.

His parents exchanged a look, and he hoped that, whatever it was they expected of him, he’d be able to give it.

RICHARD LEANED OVER the boat rail, the mild hissing of the Ohio River not nearly loud enough to drown out the lecture Mr. Marshall was giving Pa. Their families went way back to the days when Great Crossing was a fort called Bryant Station. The man talked like the devil, but at least he’d left behind his sons, Lewis and Humphrey, who really were devils. They were Richard’s age or thereabouts. He would have thrown one, or both, into the river by now.

Mr. Marshall’s words didn’t seem to bother Pa, who puffed at a cigar, staring off at the Kentucky side of the river as if the man were reciting the Iliad.

And another thing I want to know is, what are we going to do about Washington’s pig-headed proclamation? We got us a mob in Louisville that don’t cotton to being told their meetings are unlawful assembly. I’ve heard him referred to on more than one occasion as King George, so just what kind of resolutions against Spain can we make that’ll get his approval?

Marshall noticed how much of his own cigar had turned to ash, cleared his throat and tapped away the wasted two inches of his smoke.

Just the kind that’ll make sure no more Kentucky boys set fire to Spanish forts or shoot another soldier. This is a quarrel between Spain and France, and we cannot get between them. We don’t have money for a war with anybody. Simple as that.

Richard took a step closer to the men. Just the word ‘war’ gave him a mixture of thrill and fear.

So, we have to keep our heads cool while we’re surrounded by a bunch of hotheads? I tell you frankly, Johnson, if we don’t get those barges moving again down to New Orleans, we’re going to have civil war. And I can’t say as I blame our boys. It’s hard to stand behind the president when he gives the impression of callous disregard for our western way of life.

Well, if it’s any comfort to you, Marshall, the president’s letter gives us his blessing and his prayers. He’s counting on us to calm our boys down long enough to get things squared with the diplomats. And we all know how long it takes those fellas. Robin chuckled.

Marshall did not respond with any humor. Easy for you to say. You shipped east. You aren’t sitting on a year’s worth of hemp or cotton or tobacco growing mold in some dockside warehouse. I’m just giving you fair warning that these men aren’t in the mood to listen to somebody who looks like they’ve got a deal with the devil, an’ sealed with a letter from the almighty president.

YOU UNDERSTAND A LITTLE better what’s at stake, Richard? Pa nodded toward the bulging warehouses ahead of them as their keelboat docked at Louisville. A slow, chilling wind ruffled the Ohio and knocked about the rows of empty barges in their moorings. Marshall and others hurried by, saluting and exchanging somber words. The town had the feel of a funeral attended by a dead man’s worst enemies.

They had no trouble finding a couple of Irish boys to tote their bags. Richard swallowed hard when he saw their thin jackets and rags wrapped over remnants of what once had been shoes. He stepped onto the road just as a boy plodded by, struggling with a cage full of spitting cats.

Have to keep those river rats killed off, Pa told him. All those grain sacks are easy pickings. He shook his head in disbelief after taking in the waste. I can understand now why they want to burn out the Spaniards.

Richard pictured their people back home in the fields of hemp and cotton, toiling at the mill and the rope walk. What if everything had been lost because his father had chosen the Mississippi run instead of going up Lake Erie way? He felt something new to him, a kind of godly sorrow, as he passed the people congregating by the warehouses. Their families faced ruination. How’d you know which way to ship this year, Pa?

Reading the journals from back east, something you should start doing instead of reading so many stories. Richard glanced at his father as they walked briskly toward the center of town. He could not believe things had gotten so bad Pa would consider abandoning their books. Homer, Milton, Cervantes gave them not just stories but secret passageways between their minds, maybe even their souls. 

That revolution in France has gotten everybody stirred up, including Spain, and it got me to thinking that we should sell to Americans instead of foreigners.

Smart thinking, Pa. I hope I’ll be able to figure things out like you do.

If I were smarter, more people would have followed my example.

Do you think they’re jealous? The way Mr. Marshall talked...

Maybe. Anybody lucky enough to have all we’ve got has to make other people envious. I’ve learned, and you may as well learn it too, people are going to think what they want, and you will have little power to change their minds.

They neared Hill Street, where the fragrance of damp chestnut leaves cleared their heads of the smell of rot along the river. Richard looked down, conscious of the Irish boys’ eyes on his boots. He felt ashamed of the contrast between them.

Pa nodded in the direction of a large red brick house across the street. Our inn looks nice. Your future brother-in-law told me about it.

Colonel Ward’s not right for Sallie. He’s too old, Richard blurted.

Pa laughed. Now why would a young lady of seventeen want to marry a boy her own age? Believe me, son, older men make the best husbands. Besides, who else in our neck of the woods could afford to take care of your sister?

Richard frowned. Money isn’t everything, he muttered, giving a shy glance at the ragamuffins coming to a halt beside him.

Thanks, boys. Drop those things on the porch. We’ll take them in. Pa gave them each a coin.

Richard looked down again at his slick boots. Wait, he mumbled before the two stepped off the porch. He fumbled in his jacket to find the hidden pocket where he’d squirreled away his spending money and dropped the coins into two of the dirtiest hands he had ever seen.

The next morning, Richard and his father bundled themselves against the north wind. Richard said nothing about his fourteenth birthday as they walked toward the meeting hall. It made him feel like a man to let it pass unrecognized. He repented of being harsh in his thoughts about his mother, knowing she was thinking of him right about now. They stepped into the Democratic Society meeting, already warm from the well-established fire at the end of the room. The crowd of angry men gave off a different kind of heat, however. He strained to hear his father over the noise.

Listen to everyone, even if at first they seem like fools. Reserve judgment. And Richard, keep the thoughts in your own head quiet. That’s the hardest part.

Richard noticed how his father stuck to the President’s commission, determined to get resolutions, not arguments, from the delegates, but nothing came of the first day. He sensed, however, that something extraordinary was happening within himself. His pages of notes, made in lightning-fast scribbles only he could interpret, seemed to impress the men sharing their table.

When Richard returned to the inn with his father, two other delegates accompanied them, intent on drafting a first report for Washington. Julien Leclerc brought his cheerful twelve-year old son, Alphonse. John Henderson, an enormous man, carried a wicker basket of victuals suitable to his size. The aromas rising from the food bin made Richard’s mouth water.

As they walked, he noticed Alphonse take a surreptitious peek under one of the flaps, but checkered napkins kept everything well hidden. The inn’s food was passable—an improvement over the Singing Sisters—but Mr. Henderson’s basket left room for only one question in Richard’s mind: was there anything in there for him?

Now my friends, Mr. Henderson grinned, ballooning his jowls against his cravat, I want to introduce you to one of the jewels of Louisville. Their small party huddled round a wobbly tea table in a corner of the inn’s dining hall. Rain had begun to tap against the window panes; a chill scurried down Richard’s back. He scooted his chair nearer the fireplace, and saw Alphonse do the same. They both had trouble disguising the wolf pup hunger in their eyes.

Hmm? Mr. Henderson raised his eyebrows knowingly as he spread open the napkins, revealing delicate breads in impossible twisted shapes; bite-sized morsels of meat encrusted with peppers and spices Richard had never smelled before. The pies and cakes also came in sizes just right for him to pop into his mouth.

Oh, Pa. What Sallie would do to have food like this for her weddin’ spread.

Alphonse swallowed the last morsel on a chicken wing. Who’s Sallie?

My sister. Getting married in a few weeks to a high and mighty Ward. Our cook died, and the ones we have now are terrible.

Mr. Henderson, who was listening more closely to the boys’ chatter than the men’s political discussion, put down his napkin.

Here, here, Johnson, he smiled as he interrupted Robin and Mr. Leclerc. Do you mean to tell me that you have no cook? Do you realize, the treasure who created these morsels for me belongs to my host, Edward Chinn? And the poor fellow’s lost everything in this damned embargo. I’d buy her myself, except my wife won’t hear of it.

I’m not here for any other purpose than this convention, Robin answered, but the remorse in his voice was not lost on Richard.

Pa, Richard started, trying to control his eagerness, You’ve had a good year. Nothing could make Sallie happier than getting this cook. And Ma can’t go on much longer with the Singin’ Sisters. It won’t hurt to go and meet Mr. Chinn, would it?

Robin paused. He glanced at the bits of pecan tarts and iced shortbread left in front of him. No, he sighed. I suppose it won’t hurt to arrange a meeting. Henderson, would your host be receptive to a couple of Scott County strangers intruding on his home?

Mr. Henderson brushed the last of the crumbs from his waistcoat. Without meeting Robin’s eye, he demurred, Oh, I do believe I can arrange for you to meet. He’ll be at the convention tomorrow, if he can get on his feet. He’s been quite ill.

Once in bed, Richard snuggled next to his father for warmth. Pa, is Alphonse one of those people that seem like fools to you? I want to reserve judgment, like you said.

Robin chuckled. He’s just a boy. A bit light-hearted, but then so were you, a mere two years ago. But you are fourteen now, and it seems you’ve left that behind. Except where food is concerned.

Anybody who can make plain old food taste that good has got to be worth it.

Yes. Well. Robin cleared his throat. Just remember your mother has plain and simple tastes.

Toward the end of the final day of the conference, Mr. Henderson steered a pale, weary young man in the direction of Richard and his father. May I present Mr. Edward Chinn? He smiled like a successful matchmaker.

I hear from Mr. Henderson that you are in need of a cook, the unhappy man said.

Chapter 3

Fire

October 1794. Louisville, Kentucky

Richard sat near the fireplace in Edward Chinn’s house. He took in the high ceiling, panels and rails that made the large room expand upward and outward at the same time. The variety of paintings, sculpture, human-size vases and tiny figurines distracted him from the papers his father wanted him to see. He heard the words of the Bible in his head counsel against love of Mammon, but he knew he could love God and Mammon if this were the Mammon.

Before their introduction, Mr. Henderson explained how all of Chinn’s wealth had vanished not only because of the Spanish blockade, but because of the arrest of his business partners by the revolutionaries in France. Yet, for a sick man who had lost everything, Richard thought he saw a gleam of hope in Mr. Chinn’s eyes. Pa had just given him thousands of dollars.

He’d lost track of the names on the transfer of ownership papers Pa and Mr. Chinn had been exchanging for the last two hours. He remembered the fancy name of Jasper. He was a butler and would be Sallie’s best wedding present. Pa took a liking to Jamie the coachman, along with a carriage and its matching horses. Pa had papers for a gold-skinned young wheelwright Jamie described as indispensable. His name was Sandy, like his color. Richard overheard Mr. Chinn tell Pa he’d give him a bargain on the cook’s sister and daughter, adding with a shrug, Why break up the family?

Richard grew alarmed, however, when his father added enough furniture and artwork to fill two supply wagons. Which he also purchased, with horse teams.

Mr. Chinn called Jasper to him without looking up from the paperwork. Fetch Henrietta and the child.

Jasper entered the kitchen, headed toward a plate of leftover muffins and popped one into his mouth. Farmers. Big place back east next to Georgetown, he informed Henrietta.

Where’s that?" she asked as she scalded the breakfast dishes.

Not too far from Lexington. Horse country. He dashed off the crumbs spoiling his perfect waistcoat then rubbed his gloved fingertips clean.

Jasper, we live in Kentucky. What isn’t horse country?

He laughed quietly. Long way from here and best of all, any Chinns. You ready to meet the new master?

Ready as I’ll ever be. What’s he like?

Nothing like the Chinns.

Where’s Julia? She changed her apron and covered her hair with a clean white cap.

Playing with Delia and Caroline. I’ll get her. He’s taking Milly, too, he said as he left.

Henrietta leaned against the pantry door, choked back a sob and said a little prayer of thanks.

As she walked through the entry hall, she heard Jasper whisper, Run catch up with your mama. Julia grabbed her hand, and they stepped into the drawing room together. Henrietta curtsied and signaled to Julia to do the same. The little girl held out her apron instead of her skirt as she bent her knees but kept her head up and stared wide-eyed at the new master’s son.

This is Henrietta, Mr. Chinn mumbled. Master Johnson and his son, Master Richard, he added in her direction.

Richard forced himself to break off staring at the woman and child standing before him by glancing over at Pa, who quickly averted his eyes to the floor. The cook was tall, fair-skinned, with a shape like Aphrodite observable even through her thick, coarse gown. The child looked like Mr. Chinn’s daughters. Was it his imagination, or was Chinn squirming a bit in his chair?  

Pa cleared away the catch in his throat with a cough that echoed off the high ceiling, and managed to ask, What’s the little girl’s name and age?

Henrietta answered in a deep, soft voice, Mas Chinn—the oldest one, that is—named her Julia, for her being born on Independence Day. Four years ago.

Edward Chinn mumbled, These are my grandfather’s people. We inherited them along with this house at his death last year.

And your sister? Pa asked in an unnaturally strained voice.

Milly, sir, and she is thirteen.

As the grownups talked about duties and expectations, Richard turned his eyes to the child and stared back at her. She slipped away from her mother to come closer to him.

Fire, she whispered, and pointed a tiny finger at him.

Richard looked wonderingly at Julia’s pale, delicate face. She looked like Mr. Chinn. He felt blood rush to his cheeks when he realized it might be the truth. She was gangly like a newborn foal, a sure sign she’d be tall like her mother. Chinn was tall, too. Julia stood inches from his face now; he found her wide-eyed stare irresistible. Her gray-green eyes made him think of a kitten Sallie once loved. What a shame Ma wasn’t going to have a little girl.

Nothing like a fire on a damp and chilly day. Your hands cold? Richard nodded toward the cheerful blaze in the fireplace.

Julia tilted her head, puzzled, and brought her hand inches from his hair. Fire, she whispered.

Oh! Richard laughed and gave a tuft of his thick hair a yank. When I was a baby, some Indians tried to burn me in my cradle, and my sister threw a bucket of water on me. She says my hair turned red, so I’ll never forget she saved my life and I owe her everything!

Julia moved even closer and blew at his hair. Richard felt a little gooseflesh rise on his scalp. Her name’s Betsey. She was very brave, he said in mock seriousness. Are you brave, too? He lowered his head and shook it back and forth, tickling her hand with his head of fire. To his delight, she let out a squeal of laughter.

Richard broke off his play with Julia when he heard his father’s voice turn unfamiliar in its coldness. At Great Crossing, families stay together unless someone runs. If any of you tries, you’ll be sold in opposite directions. Do I make myself clear?

Richard turned his attention to Henrietta. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Just looking at her made him aware of parts of himself he didn’t want to think about.

She answered firmly, You don’t have to be concerned on our account, Mas Johnson. Pa gave her a peculiar look Richard didn’t understand.

They set out midday, caravan style. Jamie led out in the carriage with Richard and his father. Jasper drove the first supply wagon with Henrietta and Julia on board. Milly quivered with joy as she climbed next to Sandy in the last wagon. The sky cleared, the winds calmed, and the roads looked dry. Robin gave God the glory.

Chinn was right, Jamie is a masterful coachman. You can’t read a journal in every carriage, Robin said. Richard brought his eyes back inside the coach, feeling guilty for stealing so many glances at their new cook. She had wrapped a blanket around herself and her child and joined Jasper on the wagon seat. Truth be told, he had noticed Pa peeking a time or two at her from behind his newspaper.

Richard had to force himself to read about Washington’s rough second term in the hope of casting Henrietta—and Satan—out of his mind, but his mind would not cooperate. With his eyes still on the paper, he asked, Was it Seneca or Heraclitus who said, ‘War is the father of all things, making some...

"‘Free men and others slaves.’